Gained in Translation
by WargishBoromirFan
Summary: Young Boromir's Sindarin lessons are not going as planned. Part of the DenFin Files.


**Author's Notes:** Tolkien's language and characters, save for Corusael, who is highly inspired by Chmiel's comics. While the words are real elvish, the in-fic translation isn't exactly the one Tolkien was necessarily going for, though it is the first one I got after reading the Silmarillion. For real translations of the characters' names, see the link to "Real Elvish" off of NavaerLalaith's profile. (Yes, Warg is a geek. Thanks for noticin'. It's "Saviour of Those Who Turned Back," by the way.)

* * *

Boromir frowned. The problem was not the assignment, irritating as it might be. It was not so much that Sindarin was a useless language - though it was; outside of his uncle's old sayings and his mother's lullabies, who really spoke elvish anymore? It was not as if he would be meeting any elves in Gondor. His mother and his tutor could say what they liked; Boromir still failed to see the point. 

The real problem, though, the eight-year-old reflected as he tapped his quill against his chin and lazily flipped through the dusty old book before him, was that his baby brother knew more Sindarin than he did. It was not that he was jealous of Faramir and the toddler's ability to pick up the singsong language as easily as the much more useful, familiar words of Westron, for the younger brother had come late into talking despite Boromir's many attempts to show him how. But if Sindarin was so easy that a three-year-old could learn most of the words, if maybe not the order in which they went and certainly not how to write them, then why was it so difficult for Boromir?

He shook his head. Letting his mind wander would not get the translations done any faster, and there were many, much more important things to worry about, such as his upcoming swordsmanship lessons. Surely, not even his mother could argue that those should be postponed in favor of some stuffy scribe's duty. Boromir would have to build his muscles, after all… The boy could not entirely convince the nagging bit in the back of his head that knew his mother and her influence on his governess, tutors, and - Valar curse it – even his father. Conceding defeat, Boromir stirred the quill about in the inkpot and actually looked up the words.

"Den…" "Dene…" nothing; it wasn't listed. Wait… there it was: "din:" silent. Well, that suited him well enough. He usually was silent until he had something important to say, like when Boromir's sword lessons would begin. Perhaps the tutor wasn't making things up when he said that you could tell a lot about a man just by his name.

"Thor" was short for "Thoron," wasn't it? "Thoron" was easy! Captain Thorongil had left Gondor when Boromir was still younger than Faramir was now, but that name had been bandied about often enough. "Thoron" meant eagle. Unless it meant star; Boromir wasn't completely certain. Sindarin had entirely too many words for star and not nearly enough for sword, in his opinion. Well, star didn't make much sense, so Boromir would go with eagle. The bird described the man better than star did: his father often resembled a watchful raptor, what with his dark hair, aquiline nose, sober clothing, and sharp, nigh-on all-seeing eyes. Yes, the man might not glitter like a star, but in Boromir's mind, he was at least as impressive as an eagle. An eagle was better than a star, anyway, for how many stars talked or fought in great battles or might even carry a man?

Boromir rushed through the rest of the translations, feeling more confident now that he had the first. He was feeling very smug up until he returned his parchment and saw the smile twitch upon his tutor's face. Corusael seemed to hold his breath until he could compose his features, the man's voice at last emerging in calm, collected, business-like tones. "I'll grant you that the first translation is rather… creative, but I would like you to look up the legend of Denithario for me. We will be reading it, in Sindarin, to work upon your vocabulary."

The boy's face fell, his shoulders slumping with a sigh. "Another boring elf?" he muttered rebelliously. His tutor had never truly appreciated the high drama that was Turin's tale, especially the battles, and maybe occasionally the magic spells and curses. The man kept insisting that Boromir read other stories as well, or at least not skim over Turin's childhood and early travels quite so much. Really, the eight-year-old was convinced that Corusael had no taste in edifying classical literature.

"There are elves in the story, yes. If you consider high adventure boring, then the summary is accurate."

Boromir found his curiosity piqued, despite his better instincts. "There isn't going to be pages and pages about _walking_, is there?"

"Are there," his tutor corrected absently. "Well, there must be some walking; otherwise, how would the armies arrive? A good captain must know the territory he will fight in, no?" Boromir nodded, and pretended not to notice as his tutor shook his head in despair.


End file.
